‘So,’ Eleanor turned her sincere pale blue eyes on him. ‘Poppy says you’re writing a screenplay? My, what a creative couple you are.’

Damian looked at her suspiciously. Was she taking the piss?

‘I wish I could be creative like that, but as Marty says, there’s only room for one creative mind in our marriage. I was always the business brain, but I’m afraid that turned to mush once Hammy was born.’ She laughed self-deprecatingly and Damian started to relax. She was a nice woman and he really had to get a grip.

‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ he said, his natural good manners returning. ‘And of course, being a mother is the most important job of all.’

‘You’re sweet,’ she said, smiling and putting a hand on his forearm. ‘So tell me about your screenplay.’

In the kitchen, Marco, Chase and Fabrice were sniffing poppers and dancing to Donna Summer. Poppy burst into peals of laughter as she walked through to get another bottle of champagne out of the fridge.

‘Nothing like conforming to stereotype,’ she giggled.

‘Want some, cutie pie?’ Fabrice offered her the little brown bottle.

‘Oh, OK, fuck it, why not?’ It was her party and she could sniff kiddy drugs if she wanted to. She took a large sniff and felt a huge rush of blood to her head, the disco music suddenly making perfect sense.

‘I feel luuuuur-uuur-uuur-uuuurve,’ she sang, dancing around with her arms in the air. ‘I feel luuuurve!’

All three of her newish gay friends followed suit, and they pranced around the kitchen together, like – well, just like gay people on amyl.

‘God, life is great when you’re off your tits, isn’t it?’ Poppy shouted over the music.

‘Hey, looks like I’ve found the right party,’ said Sandra, the vintage-store owner, bursting through the kitchen door. ‘Poppy, doll, you look fabulous!’

‘You too, Sandra,’ said Poppy with chemically enhanced feeling. Her new female friend was done up in her own approximation of gangster-chic, in black pin-striped shorts and waistcoat, with PVC over-the-knee boots, her peroxide-blonde hair piled up into a trilby.

‘Guys, this is Sandra …’

‘Hey, Sandra,’ said Marco. ‘We met when we shot Poppy Takes Manhattan in your to-die-for store, remember? I’m Marco, the assistant director. And this is my partner, Chase.’

‘Oh, Gaaaaawd, I should have guessed. Way too good looking to be straight, both of ya. Way to go, laws of what a waste. And you!’ She pointed at Fabrice, who was bare-chested in tight leather pants, his only concession to the dress code a trilby and white bow tie that stood out against his inky black, perfectly smooth chest. ‘No point in asking, huh?’

‘No point at all.’ Fabrice grinned, sensing a fellow outrageous free spirit. ‘I’m Fabrice.’

‘Well, Sandra, you’re in safe hands here,’ said Poppy. ‘Help yourself to drinks. I just have to mingle for a couple of minutes …’ She was worried about Damian and wanted to check that he was OK. He’d been in a weird mood all night. Actually, all week, if truth be told, ever since coming up against his last brick wall, screenplay-wise. She’d been trying to boost his confidence, telling him how clever he was, that it was only a matter of time. But to no avail, it seemed.